My writing table has seen all my wretchedness, knows all my plans, has overheard all my thoughts.

A woman, even a prude, is not long at a loss, however dire her plight. She would seen always to have in hand the fig leaf our Mother Eve bequeathed to her.

Conscience is our unerring judge until we finally stifle it.

Sometimes at the best moments a single word or a look is enough.'

Reproach is usually honest, which is more than can be said of praise.

The art of motherhood involves much silent, unobtrusive self-denial, an hourly devotion which finds no detail too minute.

Glory and fame mean twelve thousand francs' worth of paid articles in the newspapers and five thousand crowns' worth of dinners.